


How far we've come, how far we'll go

by airsalonpasandpettysquabbles



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Even though Merthur is my OTP, It's more angsty than romantic, This could be perceived as romantic or platonic or however you like, enjoy :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 21:06:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18535477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airsalonpasandpettysquabbles/pseuds/airsalonpasandpettysquabbles
Summary: An insight into Merlin's life and how he copes. If he copes.





	How far we've come, how far we'll go

**Author's Note:**

> A few months ago, back in February, I binged all the seasons in BBC's Merlin and oh my gosh it hit me right in the feels. I started an angsty fanfic but then abandoned it. I came across it today and finished it (with a happy ending, of course) and thought it might be worth sharing. 
> 
> I know there are a lot of pieces like this, especially 'Arthur comes back' fics, but I couldn't help myself from writing this. Enjoy!

**_A dream doesn't become reality through magic; it takes sweat, determination, and hard work._ **  
_\- Colin Powell_

Merlin liked to think that Arthur's reign of eventual peace and prosperity came about in a very orderly and ordinary fashion. Unfortunately, he knew better. Magic had everything to do with it, from the way Camelot seemed to manage unscathed disaster after disastrous chaos, to the very sole reasoning of how Arthur was still alive. How many times had his magic saved him in the past? How many lucky coincidences there had been where he had met some old and powerful seer to save the Once and Future King? His father, for example, was one of the wise mentors who had saved his friend. Alas, a Camelot with harmony between all folk, magic or not, was simply a dream that came true, due to happy accidents and lucky coincidences.  
_Only this and nothing more._

The Warlock, always wearing his heart on his sleeve, always putting his friends before his own needs, always remaining loyal to someone dear, even after they'd passed on, would never admit that Camelot's success rested entirely on his shoulders. Of course, Arthur was a hell lot better of a ruler than his father, but he wasn't holding the kingdom up by himself. Not at all, because if anyone would've noticed, he was only a side of the coin. He had another half. A destiny. Yet, Merlin thought nothing of it, thinking that if he didn't think about it, he would forget, and if he forgot, it wouldn't sting as much. So the Great King Arthur was reduced to a mere legend.  
_He tried to convince himself that it didn't sadden him._

He never really fathomed the inspirational quotes that people went around exchanging. Everything took sweat, determination and hard work to reach, that much was obvious. What these expressions didn't mention was the sheer amount of sacrifices and regrets that happened in between. Lancelot, for example. Saving the one his love cared most about, even if it clawed at him from the inside, even if it pained him each time he laid eyes on the couple, even if it killed him to stand by and helplessly watch. Yet he never painted himself in bitterness or anger as Morgana had, only keeping a reassuring smile as he gladly passed on to the next world. Arthur, well, needless to say, he was another story. One that was better left untold. But blood sacrifices weren't the only type, another being the sacrifice of keeping an unnerving and boundless secret that gnawed at your conscience every day, and not being able to tell your best friend. Your other half. Your destiny. But those were irrelevant, because...well because that was in the past and everyone knew that it was pointless to dwell on stolen moments that could not be changed.  
_He repeated the mantra in his head as to convince himself that it was true._

* * *

 **_If you carry your childhood with you, you never become older.  
_ ** _\- Tom Stoppard_

In some ways, Merlin found truth in the statement. He understood perfectly well, because he's been carrying his whole life around the world, to and from, there and back, for centuries. Lifetimes. Hauling around memories, or fractures more like it, of his what-used-to-be past. His once upon a time. And he never grew past the phase of grief, of his old habits even. He was still the same old Merlin, even after all the years he had barricaded through. Only time had left its mark on him, etching his eyes with maturity and wisdom, albeit melancholy and hardness.

When he was a child, he knew he was different from the rest of the village children. It wasn't just the fact that he didn't wish to play with anybody, much less play at all, nor the fact that he was simply reserved, it was because he had magic. A secret that he had to guard with his life. That meant that throughout his childhood he constantly had to hide /who he truly was/, had to hold these responsibilities that no ten-year-old or teenager should have, which meant he resorted to feeling free as a child would, when he could; he couldn't help but want to smile or be care-free or dance with the butterflies if it meant to get away from it all for just one moment. Hell, even attending to Arthur as his servant brought him a sense of normalcy. It wasn't stress-inducing /not most of the time anyway/ nor did it leave him panting, alone and scared in the middle of the night. Later on, in the 20th century, Merlin diagnosed himself with the recent psychological discovery known as PTSD. Of course, he was a few hundred years too late, but now he had a valid response to tell Arthur if he ever complained about his tardiness in the mornings. Which he wouldn't do anymore since the only Arthur he knew of was a sarcastic fable passed along in bars as much as story-books read to wondrous wide-eyed children.

 _"You're such a girl Merlin."_ Or,  _"Stop acting like a child."_ That was what Arthur always told him. He wasn't wrong, no, he just didn't know the depth of the statement. Didn't know just  _how_  right he was. Gaius often told him that he had the same mischievous glint in his eyes like that of his father. It reassured him, to know that there was still a part of the man he never knew inside of him, apart from the 'obvious' dragonlord gifts he had in his genes.

Once upon a time, Merlin stood on the brink of Camelot, on the edge of the forest where he had made graves for each and every one of his friends. From the knights of the round table to Arthur, Gaius, and finally Gwen. There were no bodies, but he felt rested knowing that they'd been honored, as well as remembered, at least by him. There he was, knee deep in dry and earthy soil, hands clamming around wilted forget-me-nots, tears prickling in his eyes, and not looking a day over twenty-one. He knew they were all watching him, somehow, and that they would want him to keep hope.  
_He swore to never get attached to anyone again._

* * *

_**What you get by achieving your goals is not as important as what you become by achieving your goals.  
**\- Zig Ziglar_

Before Kilgharrah's passing, he sympathized with the dragon on his death bed. When they had met, he was more than 2000 years old. He must've seen terrible and amazing things in his time, watching from the clouds as civilizations and cities were built and undone, either by storms or by the cruelty of man. The world went by, evolving, while he slowly became the only one of his kind. All those years, trapped under Uther's reign must've really put in perspective the gravity of the situation. Only a few hundred years later, would Merlin understand the solitary walls his old friend had built, as well as his passive demeanor.

That is what he became, lonely, and what did he get for it? Albion, the all-united land? Rather, Albion, the land everyone forgot about. Gwen's reign was strong, but after the Pendragon blood-line vanished, the dynasty crumbled and Albion with it. All of his efforts, all of his sacrifices, what did they mean, then? He spent nights pondering on the question, days mulling over his depressing conclusion that Albion would never see the day of light again. On the positive side /or at least one he tried to craft out of all his desperation/, Druids and other magical folk were not chased or hunted or executed for being who they were. Maybe his efforts weren't in vain after all.  
_When people stopped believing in magic, Merlin stopped believing he still had a purpose to fulfill._

When World War 1 came, he was tired and frankly sick of still being  _there_. He had immediately signed up to go to the fronts, as an American nonetheless, feeling redemption. Maybe he could be worthy of dying now, maybe that was the key to stopping his immortality. He soon learned that he was wrong; he couldn't die. He shielded other soldiers to prevent them from dying because  _they_  had families,  _they_  had lives to live. Whatever wounds he had embraced were healed almost instantly, his magic wrapping around the damage and making it disappear. He had let out a cry of resignation the first time he had healed himself. He couldn't die, even now, when he was saving others as he used to do.  
_He realized that forever was forever and the world would not let him catch a break._

By the time World War 2 rolled around, he was heart-broken. He knew of what the Germans were doing, and he had tried to save as many as he could, just like his acquaintance Shindler, but he knew that he could not do anything drastic. As much as he could and would, it would derail history and he would have messed with a greater force in the universe. So, when the Allies finally learned of the traumatizing genocide that was the Holocaust, he behaved like everyone else around him would; ready to face death. He only wished death were ready to face him. Sometimes he would spot a tuft of blond or a head of hazel curls and he would reminisce of his friends. So on days where there were breaks, some time to kill, he would find himself writing letters of all of his adventures. Sometimes he was asked, "Who are you writing to?" He would always respond with, "People I wish to be reunited with."  
_He wouldn't say, but most of his letters started with_ ** _Dear Arthur_**.

* * *

 **_It takes one person to forgive, it takes two people to be reunited._  
** _\- Lewis B. Smedes_

Emrys carried a lot of burdens on his shoulders over the years, but one of the biggest ones was the fact that he was not forgiven by Arthur. He had magic and he had kept it from Arthur for as long as they knew each other. He saw the look of betrayal of the King's face, but could not accept it. He knew that what he did was unforgivable in Arthur's eyes and that he would most likely never be pardoned for it, but deep down he wished for them to smile and laugh about it. Unfortunately, the world deemed it not possible because Arthur was running out of time. Precious, valuable time, time that he had too much of and his other half not nearly enough. Why couldn't he give his longevity to the other?! Why couldn't he have died in his place, on that one fateful day in Camlann?! To say he was angry at the world was an understatement. So, maybe time had made him cold, bitter and resentful, but he hadn't known how else to cope with his 'bad luck' /or whatever other names that could be attributed to it/.

Towards the early 2000s, he had felt a pull at his magic. Something went off in his head; Albion. He had rushed to the lake he had concealed with protective magic all those years ago, his heart fluttering at the excitement of reaching the nostalgic place. Once there, he had found someone trying to get through to him.

"Merlin!"

"Lancelot! Is it really you?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, my friend, and I am happy to see you're still doing well."

He chuckled at that, "As well as a three-thousand-year-old could be, I suppose."

"I haven't got much time, but soon your powers...well, you'll see, but the world will undergo some...ugh...changes."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if anything strange or  _draining_  happens to you, just know that you aren't in danger."

With that, his image flickered and dissipated, leaving Merlin with more questions than answers.

Lancelot's definition of soon was confusing because Merlin's 'soon' could vary from years to centuries. He was patient nonetheless, accepting that whatever Lancelot warned him of, was coming. One day. And it did come, on a rainy day in April, in fact. He was reading by the fireplace when all of a sudden he had felt all of his energy drain. All of it, at once. He had managed to drag himself to bed, somehow, not even bothering to drape the covers over himself. Lancelot told him not to panic, so he wouldn't. Not a minute later, he had lost consciousness.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

He felt a hand caressing his cheek and another sifting through his hair. He barely caught onto soft murmurs and shuffling. Where was he? His eyes fluttered open and he took in the sight of blond hair and shimmering armor. Was he finally dead? His confusion must've shown on his face because of the answer he got.

"No," the stranger—Arthur soothed. "You're-  _we're_  very much alive,  _Mer_ lin."

Being so focused on the one man, he had barely noticed the others around his bed. Gwen, Lancelot, Percival, Gwaine, Elyan, Gaius-

He sat up abruptly, "You're all here!"

He had a vague recollection of how it happened, but somehow he knew it was real. He knew he had done it;

 _"Though no man, no matter how great, can know his destiny, some lives have been foretold, Merlin,"_  Kilgharrah had once told him.  _"Arthur is not just a King-he is the Once and Future King. Take heart, for when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again."_

Then he had made the tombstones; his friends' resting place. His emotions must've been so powerful that he had unconsciously released magic into the world. Magic that would resurrect them, in time. And when they would, he would fall into a temporary comma that could only be undone by Arthur. Arthur who would come when Albion needed him the most...but he was the only reminder of Albion. Which meant, that they were all here because of him...

He was brought out of his thoughts by strong arms pulling him into a warm body. Yellow feathery hair tickled at his nose.

"Look how far you've come, Merlin," Arthur whispered affectionately.

And with that, the Warlock knew he was forgiven, even after all the years that had passed in between their time and his. 

He had come far, yes, but he would go even farther with his friends standing alongside him.

**Author's Note:**

> Named after Matchbox 20's 'How far we've come'.


End file.
